Valkyrie
by Mille Vera
Summary: A memory cannot last forever; love, on the other hand, is a different story.


**AN: My first KS fanfic.**

**Enjoy. **

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**Valkyrie**

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I can see it; all of it.

My life, spread out before me, nothing more than scattered memories dotting the horizon like stars in the night. They are but seeds of happiness, unable to bloom without the warmth that sat in the core of my icy and frail heart. The same heart, that, in several short years, will end my wretched journey and set me free from the tight grips of fate.

All I could do was wait, until that day; the day I fall to the floor, gasping for breath, as the last vestiges of my shattered life leave me forever. There will no one to call an ambulance, or sit at my side in my final minute. I will not scream, or cry. I will simply accept the hands that have been dealt to me. I will lie down, cross my arms on my chest, and stare at the ceiling as my vision fades. My body will go numb, and the chains that bound me to this cold world will have broken.

And, as my chest heaves for the last time, and my final breath escapes my stiff and pallid lips, I will whisper the name of the woman I love.

...If I'm lucky, I'll croak sooner.

..._If I'm lucky_.

As luck has been against me, from the very beginning.

And as I walk these streets, filled with people, I know they mean nothing to me. They are but sheep, herded toward the worldly pleasures of gambling and drink upon these petty strips of cracked and tattered asphalt. They may drown in their fortune for all I care. It's those people - so materialistic and shallow - that I despise the most, no matter how much I'm forced to serve them.

Yet, here I am, opposing the current, carving a swath through the throngs of tourists as a rebel without a cause.

It's saddening, really; these middle-aged businessmen, walking with girls half their age clinging to their arms, of whom are laughing the effective laughter of a high-class whore, have the greatest luxuries and take it for granted. Many of them - no, almost all of them - have a family waiting back home, complete with open arms and a hot meal for their hardworking husbands and fathers.

And all I go home to is a cold bed, filled to the brim of haunting thoughts from a lifetime passed by...

I do not feel pitied, as no one rightfully cares. I am just another leaf, drifting in the ocean breeze that numbs my very fingers. I am surrounded by a dozen more of these 'leaves', all of which are the same, no matter the subtle difference in appearance.

And we all float down to our demise, in a torrent of life's suffering. An unforgiving whirlwind of thoughts and actions, blending together like a dream of madmen. Time passes without a second glance, and those who do not either cherish or profit every moment are left behind in the wake of the world's will.

I, am one of those people.

They tell me to seize the day... but there is nothing to grab at, but the shortest straws. I have nothing; I've had nothing for years now, but the memories that I hold dear, just out of reach. There is no need for me to plan a future, thanks to this accursed heart pumping soiled blood through my body. There is no reason for me to live in the moment, either.

There is no reason for me to live, at all.

But, if anything, I've brought this on myself, of my own free will... By pushing the future aside, I dwell in the past, lurking in the happiness that engulfed every inch of my soul. There's not a damn thing I can do to stop it, now; I'm set in my ways as a pathetic piece of rubbish, sitting in the gutter, waiting for the floods to wash me away.

And as I leave the horrid concrete jungle and walk along the docks, the air that sits above the freezing waters fills me with an eerie peace. It just makes it all the more tempting to jump in and hopefully drown or freeze to death, whichever comes first. The ferries that line the waters this time of night form somewhat of a sea wall that blocks off the rest of the world.

I almost feel safe, locked in this prison I've created.

Now, if only I had the gall to attempt suicide again.

I can still remember that day, the clarity of recalling it shivering me in a mix of pleasure and pain. The first time I tried to end my life... A day that I will not forget. It is both a lesson and an omen, that because I have tried and failed to free myself of this pain makes me weaker, both physically and psychologically.

And as I relive that day, my mind drifts to my life before that, before the day she left me, forever...

_No_.

I cannot think about it, anymore. Not now. Not as I peer into the world beneath these docks, wrought with demons and fire. I must retreat, back into my shell, and hold on just a little longer. It is agony to go on, but I must. I must make a difference in my short life, no matter how small.

I promised.

I **_vowed_**.

But, if I were to disappear, no one would miss me; that's what hurts the most.

Solemnly, I shake my head to stop the mist of suffering from descending into my soul. The sorrow is hastily dispelled, as melancholia takes it place once more. It's not a pleasant feeling, but it isn't relief, either. It's just... there, like a lingering shadow, or a cloud that never leaves the sky. It's haunting, like my memories.

Scoffing under my breath, I turn away from the sea, my coat making a grandiose flare against the winter wind.

And as soon as I do, I catch the blood-red eyes of a woman across the docks; I freeze, rooted to my spot, my coat dropping to it's normal slack. She looks back in my direction, a hint of startling awe in her eyes that squint at me harder than a sniper targets a mark through his scope. She's carries a cigarette between her thin, scarlet lips, the amber tip releasing a long wisp of smoke into the clear air. It caresses the gentle breeze, and is wafted away.

Time stops, as her slim fingers grasp the orange tipping paper.

But before she can pull the cigarette out of her mouth, I am running.

xxxxxxx

My hands fumble with the key to my apartment.

Beads of sweat roll down my forehead as my frustration peaks.

I ran all the way here; a mile from the docks.

Suffice to say, that could be logged as a suicide attempt. My legs hurt, my vision is blurry, and my lungs are screaming in pain. But, worst of all, my heart is firing like a repeating cannon in my chest. If I didn't any know better, I could swear it was ripping me in half, ready to jump out.

Luckily, though, as I avert my eyes to the ceiling, my senses are dulled for a brief second, and I feel the familiar turning of the key in it's lock.

I swing the door open, greeted to the specks of dust that are illuminated by the rays of artificial light peering in from the offices across the street. They are but little yellow slivers of heaven in a dark cave, full of secrets. The air is stagnant, but livable; I never open the window, as all that comes in is does more harm than good. This isn't the cleanest city in the world.

As if to erase the day and all it's horrors, I slam the door, and lean against it.

_It's impossible_.

My mind tells me one thing, but my heart of glass tells me another.

_She can't be alive_.


End file.
